


And As The Sky Is Falling Down

by xcourtney_chaoticx



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bofur is awesome, Destruction of Laketown, Disasters, Fire, Gen, He is Not Just Comic Relief, Minor Violence, Post-Desolation of Smaug, Pre-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xcourtney_chaoticx/pseuds/xcourtney_chaoticx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A terrible fear clawed at Bofur’s heart. No one knew for sure if Smaug was dead. Dragons lived fearful long lives, thousands of years if not killed, and for Smaug to die after only sixty years after being last seen under the mountain was quite ridiculous. If Thorin and the others had woken Smaug-… He suppressed the shiver that ran up his spine...<br/>"Another great shudder wracked the stilted houses of Laketown, and Bofur’s heart leapt into his throat. He swore he saw a golden glimmer before the mountain, a bright fire bursting forth from Erebor and falling apart under the weak moonlight."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And As The Sky Is Falling Down

**Author's Note:**

> Finally got around to watching my copy of Desolation of Smaug and was hit by this idea. Bofur is such a character, and he deserves so much love. This is what I would love to see happen in Battle of the Five Armies in December, and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> A/N: some depictions of violence and death, though not graphic; mentions of blood and injuries; lots of fire.

The house of Bard shivered suddenly, violently. Bofur looked around warily, wondering what could have done such a thing. Young Tilda looked terrified. Sigrid quickly tended to the younger girl, speaking in tones low and soothing, though Bofur could see she was terrified herself. He wondered briefly what happened to Bard and his son Bain. They’d run out with that terrible, big bolt what felt like hours ago. The house shuddered again.

A terrible fear clawed at Bofur’s heart. No one knew for sure if Smaug was dead. Dragons lived fearful long lives, thousands of years if not killed, and for Smaug to die after only sixty years after being last seen under the mountain was quite ridiculous. If Thorin and the others had woken Smaug-… He suppressed the shiver that ran up his spine. He looked to his fellow dwarves. Kili was still asleep, his wound no longer poisoned or troubling him, now healing slowly. Fili was sitting at his brother’s side, clutching his hand. Oin, meanwhile, was off in the corner, fixing some sort of potion, presumably for Kili. The house shivered again, more violently than before. Kili did not stir. Bofur took the chance of going to the window to look at the mountain.

Another great shudder wracked the stilted houses of Laketown, and Bofur’s heart leapt into his throat. He swore he saw a golden glimmer before the mountain, a bright fire bursting forth from Erebor and falling apart under the weak moonlight. He swore, telling the others, “Quick, we’ve got to go!”

“Go? Why?” Sigrid asked, “Go where? What about Father and Bain?”

“Bard was right,” Bofur continued, “Smaug is alive… and he’s coming to Laketown. We’ve got to get out of here. These houses’ll go up like tinder.”

“Where can we go?” Fili asked.

Bofur racked his brains, trying to think of something quickly. He had no great skill for strategy and the like, but he knew something of fire and what it could do. _Think! Damn you, Bofur, think!_

“The lake! Get on your father’s barge and go to the middle of the lake!” Bofur told them, “Smaug’s a great, huge devil, and he’ll want to wreak as much havoc as possible. Even if he sees a small barge in a great lake, he’ll likely ignore it in favor of reaching the town. Now, hurry up! Fili, help me with Kili! Come on…”

The motley group hurried to the barge, Sigrid leading the way through the maze of rickety boardwalks that made up the town, ignoring odd looks and shouts. Kili was still only half awake, needing to be practically carried by Bofur and Fili, mumbling incoherently and stumbling.

“Over here!” Sigrid called.

She and her sister climbed aboard first, followed by Oin, then Fili and Kili. Bofur made to climb on but stopped, turning to look at the ramshackle town.

“Bofur, come on!” Fili pleaded.

“You all go on,” he told them, “I’ve got to tell the others in Laketown to get to safety, got to find Bard and Bain. You all go. Sail out to the middle of the lake and put the sail down once you're there so Smaug won’t see you.”

“No, I won’t leave you behind!”

“Ye will, lad! Now do as I say and _go_!”

The girls both had tears in their eyes, and Bofur was sure Fili did, too. He did not stop to watch them sail away. Instead, he turned and ran back to the town proper, shouting that the dragon was coming and for everyone to flee onto the lake or the shore. Some began running for their skiffs and barges, children in tow, as soon as they heard Bofur’s cries of alarm, while others stood by gaping. Bofur ran through the town, pushing off anyone who tried to stop him, though he did have the presence of mind to stop and ask where Bard was. He burst into the gaol, ignoring the guards, and hurried to Bard’s cell. The man had his face pressed against the bars.

“What are you doing here?” Bard gasped, “My children-? Your friends-?”

“They’re going to be alright,” Bofur told him, trying to believe it himself, “I’ve sent them out onto the lake. They should be safe there. Your girls, anyway, Bain wasn’t home.”

He could see the fear in Bard’s eyes and quickly added, “I’m sure the lad’s fine. He’s bright enough. Now, I’m going to get you out of here. Smaug is coming, and we’ve got to keep these people safe.”

There was a brief pause before Bard nodded. Bofur grabbed the keys for the cell as a roar shook the gaol and sent a shiver up his spine. The guards seemed to forget their charge and the dwarf in their rush to get to the window.

“What is that?"

“It’s gold! A river of gold from the Lonely Mountain!”

“Fools!” Bard spat, “It’s the dragon! They woke the dragon!”

Another roar echoed across the lake as if to ram his point home. The men at the window jumped at the sound and looked to the now-free Bard, who turned to Bofur and said, “There is a great warning bell atop the Master’s house, a bell that has not sounded since Smaug destroyed Dale. It will warn the people better than any words. Go and sound it, but do not get caught. The Master would drown you soon as gaol you. Go!”

Bofur did not need to be told twice. He took off for the great hall at the edge of the town, hearing Bard begin to tell the gaolers to ready water buckets but heard no more.

Smaug roared again, closer and louder. Bofur was just old enough to remember Azanulbizar, but all he knew of the Sack of Erebor were tales. He and his kin had been born in the West, in the Blue Mountains where his people fled upon Durin’s Bane seizing Khazad-Dûm and its subsequent overrunning by Orcs and goblins. Bofur and Bombur were small when their cousin Bifur went to fight at Azanulbizar, only in their twenties, still children by Dwarvish standards. Their father also answered Thrain’s call, as well as Bifur’s, but Bifur was the only one who returned, a piece of Orc axe stuck in his skull and only able to communicate in Iglishmêk and broken Khuzdul. Bofur and Bombur took it upon themselves to care for Bifur, especially after they lost their mother to a raid the following winter. When Bombur got older and took a wife, Bofur cared for Bifur on his own, both hearing the tales of dragonfire from the refugees of Erebor, come to make a home in the Blue Mountains as the dwarves of Khazad-Dûm had done long before.

Bofur’s lungs were burning as he neared the Master’s house. He slowed as he approached, not wanting to be caught and trying to figure out a way in. Two guards stood at the door… at every door, as a matter of fact. _What could possibly move them from their posts? I can’t fight my way through… and I sure don’t want to meet that oily fella with one big eyebrow…_

“Bard’s escaped!” he shouted, hiding himself in the shadows, “Bard’s escaped the gaol! Quick! Everyone to the gaol! He must be caught! To the gaol quick as ye can!”

Bofur pressed further into the shadows as the guards ran by him, followed by the oily servant. He finally peeked out and, seeing them all gone, he crept into the house. Smaug roared, and the house shivered. Bofur took off up the stairs, knowing the bell tower sat atop the house. The building seemed quite empty, which made Bofur feel both grateful and uneasy all at once. Complete silence was never good in the mines, and the silence in the house left him anxious. He slowed slightly, trying to be more aware of his surroundings. He hadn’t seen the Master leave, after all. The house shook.

Movement in the corner of his eye sent him lunging forward as the Master made a grab for him. Bofur sped up again, racing for the bell tower. The Master came after him, grunting and swearing.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, _dwarf_ ,” the man growled, “but I know you’re behind that _Bard’s_ escape! I know it! You all want to do away with me!”

“The dragon-!”

“ _The dragon is dead_!” the Master snapped, spittle flying, “No one has seen him in over sixty years! The damned dragon is dead! You’re just trying to help Bard overthrow me!”

The Master closed in on him in the narrow staircase. Bofur turned to face him, grabbed the railings on either side, and hauled himself up to plant his feet in the center of the Master’s chest. The dwarf ground out, “You’d deserve it,” and kicked both legs, sending the Master tumbling backwards down the steps. Bofur continued upward, finally reaching the door to the bell tower. It was locked. The dwarf threw himself against the door with a grunt, panic now creeping into his movements. _No no no no no! Open, damn you!_

“OPEN!” he bellowed.

He pulled back and leveled a heavy kick to the latch that sent the door crashing open. The enormous brass bell hung from the roof of the tower, the clapper swinging faintly from the tremors, a thick rope coiled beneath. Bofur started forward. Something caught his trouserleg, yanking his leg back and driving him to the floor. He rolled over.

The Master looked horrible. Blood stained one half of his face from a cut on his head. One of his hands was twisted and broken, the fingers bent at odd angles. His wretched smile bore broken teeth and blood as the house shook dangerously around them. Bofur kicked out violently, striking the man in the face. There was a sickening crunch and pained howl, but he didn’t release his grip on Bofur. He struck out with his boot again, this time connecting with the Master’s broken hand; the shriek he emitted was almost as bad as Smaug’s roar. Bofur scrambled to his feet as soon as he was released and took hold of the rope, pulling on it hard, his whole weight behind it.

The clang was deafening. After a few good pulls on the rope, Bofur decided that was enough to get some attention and turned to leave, stopping briefly to tell the Master, “Ye may want to get out. There’s a dragon comin’.”

He couldn’t be bothered to take the Master with him. If the man wanted to live, he would get up and run himself. (Though as Bofur ran for his life, he did wonder when exactly he had become that sort of Dwarf, to leave someone to possibly die in dragonfire.) When the house shuddered again, Bofur nearly lost his footing, barely catching himself to keep running. He focused on reaching the gaol. He had to find Bard. Finding Bard was the only way he would survive the night, of that he was strangely sure. He felt the next roar rumbling in his ribcage, saw the dragonfire coming closer. He prayed his friends and Bard’s daughters were safe but had to keep running.

“Bofur! There you are!” Bard called, “Did you have any trouble?”

“I doubt the Master will be happy to see me anytime soon, I expect,” the dwarf replied, “May have put a boot in his face… and pushed him down some stairs. I’ll not say I’m proud of it, though…”

“And you shouldn’t be. Tell me, Bofur, can you shoot a bow?”

“Not with any great accuracy. Kili’s one of the few dwarves I’ve ever known to use a bow well. Most dwarves prefer a good melee, if ye get my meaning.”

“I understand, but you can’t expect to hit a dragon with a hammer and live much longer. I have no doubt you’re trustworthy in battle, but we have need of archers today. You may do whatever you feel you must, Master Dwarf. You have already done more than enough for me.”

“If my kin woke the dragon, then I feel I can never do enough for ye. I’ll do whatever ye need me to do, even if it’s carrying water.”

Normally, a dwarf would balk at doing something so simple, something considered women’s work, but Bofur truly felt bad for what was about to happen to these good people. The people of Laketown reminded him of his own people, patching together a living from what the lake could give them.

“You’d likely be of more use tending wounded.”

“Aye, if that’s where ye want me.”

Bard started to speak, stopped, said, “No, I’ve got a better idea. I need you to find Bain. Only he knows where the Black Arrow is. When you find him, have him lead you to it, then tell him to run. Bring the arrow here to the gaol, understand?”

“I do.”

“Good. Go. Run!”

Bofur’s quite sure he’d never run so much in his life. He ran along the boardwalks, shouting for Bain. The thought occurred to him that Bain might have run home.

“Bain! Bain, are ye here?”

“Who is it?”

“It’s Bofur! The dwarf with the funny hat!”

“Where are Tilda and Sigrid?”

“Safe, I promise, as you should be. Now listen, lad…”

He quickly told him what Bard had asked of him, and the boy hurriedly led him to a dinghy, pulling the Black Arrow out from under a pile of rope.

“Good lad, now get out of here!”

“But my father-!”

“-will be fine unless something happens to you! Please, Bain, _run_!”

And the boy ran. The dragon was nearly on top of them. Bofur sprinted back to the gaol, Black Arrow in hand.

“Bard! Bard, I’ve got it!” he called out, “I’ve got the Arrow!”

“Good work, Bofur, now let’s go! We must get to the Windlance!”

“Wait, ye want me to go with ye?” Bofur asked, “But, I told ye-!”

“I would have no one else by my side, not after all you’ve done today! Come!”

Bard took off in the direction of the Windlance Tower, Bofur’s much shorter legs struggling to keep up.

“TAKE COVER! EVERYONE TAKE COVER!” Bard screamed.

Bofur looked up briefly before Bard pulled him down to the wooden walkway. The town convulsed around them, wood creaking and groaning and cracking. Bofur squeezed his eyes shut, but it made no difference when the world erupted in flames so bright he was nearly blinded through his eyelids. Searing heat enveloped them immediately. Bard cried out at the shock of it. Bofur grit his teeth against the discomfort. _Think of the forges in the Blue Mountains. Remember the heat of the forges. You can survive this._ He picked up his head and gasped.

The world was completely ablaze. Every building in Laketown was burning, it seemed, courtesy of Smaug. Bofur could hear folk screaming and wailing all around him. He rolled over, looking skyward. Thick, black smoke billowed up toward the stars, completely obscuring them after only moments. Then he saw Smaug. The beast was roaring out fire and beating his huge wings… and laughing. Rage flared in Bofur’s chest, far outstripping any fear he had. He shook Bard, shouting for him to move, for him to kill the devil.

Bard took a moment to pull himself together, to acclimate to the heat of so much flame, but the sound of his people screaming propelled him into action. The two beings, Man and Dwarf, clambered to their feet and made a run for the Windlance, avoiding falling debris and burning obstacles. More than once they had to pull each other to safety. Smoke and soot choked the air. Bofur’s heart felt fit to burst. His lungs burned from smoke and exertion and searing heat. _Remember the forges, the mines._ Sweat poured down his face and back and chest. His eyes stung from smoke and sweat as they climbed the stairs to the Windlance. _You can do this, Bofur! Damn you, this is nothing compared to the mines!_

The destruction of Laketown looked even worse from the tower. Folk were screaming and wailing, some on fire, others diving into the water to avoid that fate. The roar of the flames was deafening, the heat suffocating, the glow blinding. Bofur was barely aware of Bard taking the Black Arrow from him and arming the Windlance. Bard struggled to pull the string taut, coughing from the smoke and heat, so Bofur pulled himself away from the horror of Laketown’s holocaust and stepped up beside Bard to fully arm the giant bow. (At least the smoke obscured them from Smaug’s view or surely they’d be nothing but a pile of ash right now.) Bard stepped up to the Windlance, settling in to aim it.

“Do you ever pray to your Dwarvish gods, Bofur?”

Bard’s voice was thick and rough. Bofur answered him, “The Dwarves have but one god… and I’ve been known to say a prayer or two to Mahal.”

“Pray to him now. We need the help of every god in Middle Earth.”

Bofur watched Bard’s lips move soundlessly in a prayer to the gods of Men as he tracked the dragon through the sky and smoke and flame. The dwarf offered Mahal a quick prayer, simply asking that the arrow find its mark and for his friends and kin to be safe.

Smaug swooped low. Bard loosed the bolt with a shout. There was a beat.

Over the roar of the flames came a horrid shrieking. The shadow of leathery wings flailed, buffeting the air and fanning the flames. The noise coming from Smaug was horrifying, low in tone but high in volume, vibrating in Bofur’s chest. Bard swore loudly, roughly grabbing Bofur and shoving him toward the stairs.

“I hope you can swim, Master Dwarf,” he shouted over the din.

“Aye, well enough.”

“That is well, for that may be the only way we survive tonight.”

It was not the most comforting thought. Bard shouted for those left in Laketown to make for the bridge, to run, crawl, swim, paddle as fast as they could to escape the falling dragon. Bofur chanced a look to the dragon, writhing in midair but falling steadily. It was looking extremely likely Smaug would destroy the town entirely by falling on it. The dwarf felt frozen, just watching in terrified awe as one of the last great dragons fell to his death, pierced by the arrow he had avoided so many years ago. For a moment, Bofur forgot the turmoil surrounding him, forgot the heat and the smoke and the screaming. He would commit this scene to memory. He wanted to remember the death of Smaug the Terrible.

He watched until the great beast became silent and still, his body falling limply down toward the lake. As if from far away, he heard someone calling his name and turned to its source. Bard again grabbed him roughly and pulled him along toward the bridge. Bofur ran, pumping his legs to keep up with those much taller than he. A thunderous crash sounded behind them, sending many (including Bard and Bofur) pitching forward. The bridge splintered beneath them from the force of Smaug hitting the town and lake. Someone bellowed for everyone to jump into the water, and Bofur wasted no time in obeying, hurling himself off the bridge as a piece of wood shattered to splinters where he’d been standing.

The water was ice-cold, and even after the heat of the dragonfire, it shocked Bofur, seeming to pull the air from his lungs. He forced himself to kick to the surface, sucking in deep lungfuls of air and looking for Bard, calling out for the Man. He received no reply, and everyone looked the same there in the lake, sodden and scared and shivering and swimming for their lives. The shore seemed a long way off, so Bofur began to follow the throng, paddling clumsily along. Bofur was beginning to feel the weariness settling in his muscles and bones.

_Keep on swimming there, Bofur. Whenever have there been great tales of drowned dwarves? Never, that’s when! I just helped kill a dragon! I’ll not let a bit of water take me now, no matter how bloody cold it is! Bombur and Bifur will never believe it, nor the young lads, Fili and Kili and Ori. Come to think of it, I don’t know if anyone will believe it. Thorin will, I’ll wager, good dwarf king that he is… perhaps our hobbit will, as well. He’s a good fella, that Bilbo. I do hope he’s alright… that everyone’s alright…_

His thoughts propelled him to shore, kept his arms and legs working until he could touch the lakebottom and get to his feet again, though his legs had a bit of trouble supporting him. He was wet and cold and shivering and alone, but damn if he wasn’t alive. The thought would usually have him laughing aloud, but this night… it would not do for him to laugh tonight. All around him were wailing folk, mothers and fathers clutching screaming babes, men and women weeping for lost love or dead children, young ones crying for parents who were missing or dead. The grief-stricken din set Bofur’s mind reeling. Dizzy, exhausted, and frozen, Bofur stumbled over to a tall tree, under which he promptly collapsed, slipping into darkness and silence at last.

When Bofur woke again, the sun was shining weakly through the haze of smoke, warming him slightly. He shifted, trying to get more comfortable, and felt something big and warm beside him. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was Bombur or their cousin Bifur, until he recalled they had gone into the Lonely Mountain with Thorin. He shifted again, and the pain in his stiff muscles pulled a quiet whimper from his lips. A large hand came to rest on his shoulder. Bofur rolled over to find Bard sitting beside him.

“It’s good to see you awake, Master Dwarf,” Bard rasped, “When I happened upon you in the night, I thought you were dead.”

“Take more’n a dragon and a lake to kill a dwarf,” Bofur replied, his voice rough.

Fighting back the pain, Bofur pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around. Folk had lit cookfires all around them, had either helped the wandering children find their parents or had taken in the orphans. Some women went around with strips of cloth they’d cleaned and boiled for others to use as bandages, while others bore baskets of herbs and roots they’d collected from the forest. Men brought firewood around to the miniature camps to keep the cookfires burning, where they were offered a bit of food for their tinder.

“Where are your young bairns, Bard?” Bofur queried.

“I… I don’t know,” the man confessed, looking at his lap, “My girls have not yet come ashore, and I do not know where my boy went after you told him to flee.”

Shame filled Bofur’s heart. Poor man, he’d only wanted his children safe.

“I’m sorry, Bard, I-“

“No… no, this is not your fault. You did your best to keep them safe. I… I know they are alive, I just-“

“Papa?” a small, uncertain voice called, “Papa, where are you?”

“Tilda?” Bard answered, getting to his feet, “Tilda? Sigrid?”

“PAPA!”

Bard was nearly tackled by the two young maids. The three of them hugged and cried, Bard pressing kisses to his daughters’ heads and stroking their hair. Behind the girls trailed three dwarves, two young and one old. Their faces split into wide grins upon seeing Bofur, and he had to admit his expression mirrored theirs. Bofur scrambled to his feet and ran to meet them, rejoicing at the mere fact that they lived, that were there to embrace him and be embraced by him.

“You saved us, Bofur,” Fili told him.

“Oh, no. No, I didn’t do anythi-“

“You did. If not for you, we likely would have died in that inferno,” the elder prince explained, “Smaug flew right over us, didn’t even pay attention to the little barge on the lake.”

“We were worried about you, Bofur,” Kili told him quietly, “We were afraid you-… well…”

The young dwarf trailed off, clearly not wanting to voice their fears that Bofur had been dead. Kili at least looked much better than he had the night before. Much of his color was back, and he was barely limping, though Bofur noted he was favoring the wounded limb.

“We saw the dragon fall,” Kili piped up after a moment.

“Yes, who killed the devil?” Oin asked.

Bofur answered without hesitation, “Bard did. With that big Black Arrow. I saw him do it, was right there with him.”

The princes’ eyes grew wide.

“You were?”

He’d known Fili and Kili since they were dwarflings, and he was almost startled to see them look so young again. Bofur began to weave the tale for them, the tale of Bard’s victory over Smaug, and wove it true, with no embellishment or attempting to make himself better or braver than he was.

“… and then he stopped moving there in the sky. No more writhing. No more death throes. He just went still and limp and began to fall, a big black shadow tumbling down. His wings folded in on his body as he plummeted. You could hear him falling over the roar of the fires, and then the great beast crashed into the town. I had to start running and swimming after that. Giant bastard broke the bridge when he fell.”

The princes were in awe, Oin smiling quietly behind them. (He could hear well enough when he wanted to, that old dwarf.) Bofur grinned at the young dwarrows before him and pulled them into an embrace, muttering, “I’m very glad you lads are alright, very glad indeed. I’ve known ye since ye were wee, since ye were born in the Blue Mountains, and I feared-…”

Bofur’s voice choked off, and he squeezed the brothers a bit tighter before pulling back to look at them. He gestured behind them to the mountain and whispered, “There ye go, lads. That’s your home there, your rightful home. Your uncle’s in there now, preparing the halls, waiting for you.”

He saw the smiles on their faces grow soft and wistful as they looked toward the mountain, knowing Thorin had raised his sister-sons on tales of Erebor when they lived in the Blue Mountains.

“Tomorrow, lads,” Bofur told them, “Tomorrow we’ll get some ponies or a boat, and we’ll go to the mountain, to your uncle, to your kin.”

“Do you… do you think they’re still alive?” Fili asked softly.

“I do,” Bofur replied immediately, “I really do… and tomorrow we’ll go to them.”


End file.
